ASHER
Thirty minutes pass and neither of us says a word.
I sit on her worn-out sofa, the one with the armrest that's seen better days, and watch her watch her romcom. The television throws soft blue light across her face, and she's curled up with her knees tucked to her chest, completely unaware of how she looks right now.
No makeup. She's swaddled in an old t-shirt and her hair is piled into something that isn't quite a bun.
I've sat across boardroom tables from women dripping in couture, engineered from the ground up to be looked at. None of them have ever made my chest feel like this.
"You've always been ridiculously simple," I say, breaking the silence. "It should annoy me more than it does."
She pauses the TV and turns to me. I wait for the flush to creep up her neck, for her breath to catch the way it used to whenever I so much as glanced at her. It doesn't come. She just looks at me, unbothered, like my words are weather and not verdict.
